SPACE RACE CHAMPIONSHIP – a unique, out-of-this-world, no-holds-barred sci-fi adventure for Young Adults. Good old-fashioned Formula One of the 90’s BUT IN SPACE! – BOOK CLUB. Chapter 1 – New Competitors “And it’s that season again where we get hyped for the biggest event of the year. The official host of the season is back, so for the next four months of this year you will have me – Pyra Summers – talking you over the Championship and the rumours, stats, and official news that makes itself known. And since I’m back on the airwaves, you can be sure that first piece of news you all look forward to will be coming sometime this week.” Pyra Summers of Radio Racer [15/2-0085] Two spacecraft waited together at the starting line within the cruiser’s hangar bay. The improvised line was nothing more than two mini cruisers parked either side of the two ‘craft. The first ‘craft was a Galaxy model – designation Y/26t. Oblong in shape, it had a rear rectangular section that fit around the control cabin’s viewshield – which was also oblong in shape. The other ‘craft was a Rotablade – designation G/0ld5n. A rectangular shape with rounded corners, it had a tubular rotating blade set either side that were as long as the ‘craft itself. These were auto-defence weaponry emplacements, but were disabled for the moment. This ‘craft also had an oblong shaped viewshield. The two mini cruisers flashed their lights, and the pilots of the ‘craft lifted them up and shot out of the hangar. There was a lot of clutter that the two racers dodged around – the pilot of the Rotablade doing better than that of the Galaxy. Numerous lights marked the way for the racers, and as the ‘craft sped past the lights changed colour. The Rotablade was in danger of smashing straight into the hulk of a damaged mini cruiser, but a quick drop was all that was needed to avoid it. There was the issue of more debris beyond it, but the Rotablade smashed through all of it without a care in the world. When the Galaxy hit this point, it rose above instead of going below, and seemed content to stay above most of the debris. It was forced back into the debris field when one of the sections of a cruiser floated into its path. It tried to dodge around the debris instead of going through it, which caused it to lose some speed. The distance between the two ‘craft had increased. The Rotablade was now within the outer limits of an asteroid field, effortlessly flying through them. After passing a few more, it was out of the field and hugging the plating of a cruiser as it travelled down the length of it. The next light indicated the start of a structure that the racers needed to travel through. It was large, looking as though it was a cruiser in the process of being built. Or at least had been, as it looked abandoned considering the angle of it. The Rotablade flew straight in, being completely aware of the girders that made up the structure. Despite that awareness, it didn’t stop the ‘craft from clipping one of them. The pilot was quick to react and saved it from colliding into a second. The Galaxy had now opened up in speed, having hit the asteroid field. It made it through without hitting any, but there had been a few close calls. Then it was flying the length of the cruiser. The Galaxy had made sure to keep a larger gap between the two than the Rotablade had. When it reached the structure, it slowed down to enter, and kept that speed while traversing through. The Rotablade was almost back to the starting cruiser, following the last few lights that created a winding path back to the hangar it had first started at. It was still paying no mind to the debris scattered around, and was able to bank and turn hard to avoid larger obstacles quickly. It slowed down to enter the hangar at the same time the Galaxy exited the structure of the abandoned cruiser. It took about a minute more for the Galaxy to follow the path and enter the cruiser to land as well. When both had landed, a results screen appeared with the time both had taken to complete the course. “And it’s a victory for the current champion!” a voice rang out. The screens of light dispersed, revealing two boys sitting on chairs with a controller in hand. “Will the current champion be beaten sometime soon?” the other of the two stated. “Tune in next time when we race in about… Five minutes?” “The current champion will not be beaten,” Tom Hughs said. “Not if the competition refuse to push their ‘craft to the max.” “I just don’t feel I can react fast enough,” Lee Johnson responded. “If you are used to the controls and the way something feels, you should be able to react no matter what speed you’re going.” “And I always try.” Lee looked around the room, picturing the race that had just happened. Then he looked back further to the last time he had pushed to near the max. It hadn’t ended well for him. The game was a tie-in to the most popular event of the world they lived. One which happened once every five years. As it turned out, this was the year in which the next was to happen. Lee hadn’t mentioned anything about it yet, but the news had confirmed the selection of the entrants for this year had happened. Within a week, those names would be revealed, and the hype for the event would begin fully. “So, are we getting to a new race?” Tom asked. “Yeah, sure,” Lee replied. “But wouldn’t it be great to be entered into the event for real?” “As much fun as it would be, what chance do we stand without
A story of ordinary lives against a backdrop of cosmic stakes, Duncan Fraser’s captivating and unique speculative fiction debut Terrarium Hostel explores themes of connection, belonging, and self-discovery. Day 1 – Keeping a Diary It was Octave one night in The Moscow Arms who told me about an article he saw in the paper about writing to aliens. I laughed at first but when he explained that this thing called the Sol Project was a deadly serious scientific enterprise in which ordinary people had been invited to participate, I became intrigued and sent off for an entry form. The Pinkland Space Agency is going to beam powerful radio signals towards a star about 35 light years away in an attempt to make contact with an alien civilisation they think is there. The signals will contain many different kinds of communications. There will be greetings and messages of peace from our insincere politicians and summaries of our knowledge from boffins in various fields. But also included will be diaries from average Joes like myself in order to give the aliens as wide an appreciation as possible of life in this neck of the galaxy. I received the entry form a couple of weeks ago and ever since then Octave has kept asking me if I have started the diary. So I bought a large notebook and today I begin writing in my diary for the first time. I have asked him why he wasn’t also going to do it, since he is so enthusiastic about me doing it. ‘My diary would never be accepted,’ he said. ‘Why not?’ I said. ‘The judges will all be Darlingtons,’ said Octave. ‘What’s that?’ I said. ‘Darlingtons?’ said Octave. ‘Culture vultures. Precious, self-important, loose-living bohemians. You know, arty-farties. Those kind of people wouldn’t consider a diary from someone like me for one second, no matter how good it was.’ ‘How do you know that?’ ‘Just take it from me,’ said Octave, ‘I just know. The kind of people who judge literary competitions are always Darlingtons.’ I had never heard of the term. Must be a Terrarium word. ‘And they are all absolutely stupid,’ Octave added. ‘Total dum-dums. They wouldn’t understand anything I wrote.’ ‘So why do you think my diary will be accepted but yours will be rejected?’ ‘Because you are a fresh-faced, innocent idealist,’ said Octave. ‘They like people like you.’ There is a great expectation that the messages will be understood because apparently the radio signals will also contain sophisticated translation instructions which will, if you have information systems that are compatible, enable you, my dear alien reader, to read the messages in your own idiomatic language and render my unearthly existence in terms that will appear bizarrely familiar to that of your own species. For example, whenever I mention my home star, I will write it as the name I know it as but it will appear in your text as Zeta Herculis B, which is your name for it. Obviously, I don’t call it that and have no idea what you call it. But that is how it will appear in the translation. Sometimes what you read will be a surprisingly accurate description of my reality. At other times though it will be an approximation or a symbolic interpretation of what my life is actually like. But I think the idea is to always make it consistent with a correlate in your world while remaining true to the spirit of my world. I will probably sound more articulate than I actually am but the software will always try and render an accurate representation of what I am saying and strike an emotionally faithful tone. The best analogues will always be used. For example, there is an intelligent aquatic creature in the oceans of our home planet that we call a …well, frankly, a vocalisation that is unlikely to be reproducible in your language … but which will be translated as a dolphin because that is the closest counterpart in your world. (If that last sentence appears even vaguely intelligible to you, I will be amazed because I don’t know if you have any intelligent aquatic creatures in your oceans. Do you even have oceans?) I also might mention at some point that I play a musical instrument. I don’t know how this will be rendered. Do you guys even have music? Even if you do, what are the chances of you having anything like the thing I play? Pretty remote, I would say. But the instrument I play will be described in terms that you can understand – so I play a guitar. Neither of us will know how good a translation that will be. But who knows? Your instruments and our instruments may be remarkably similar. My civilisation has made great advances recently in communications and many people are calling this translation technology the greatest thing we have ever achieved. If you are reading and understanding this, my dear alien reader, then I guess they might be right. I am sure it will at least be better than the old indecipherable hieroglyphics and mind-bending mathematical brainteasers that you poor aliens used to get from us. There is still a possibility though of some very bad errors. The artificial intelligence of the translation technology may find a suitable analogue in your world but not believe it and retranslate it into something preposterous to your ears. Apparently this has happened very occasionally in tests. So if you read the odd weird or unintentionally funny thing, put it down to the stupidity of artificial intelligence. But it’s not my job to explain the technical side. I don’t understand it anyway. My job is to describe my life. All the relevant explanations will be in the Space Agency’s ‘covering letter’, as it were. What they told me in the guidelines is to write as if the reader is completely familiar with my world. I am not to attempt explanations. Personally, I don’t
Read an extract from The Blood Coast by Jason M. Kennedy – A GRITTY SPY THRILLER FROM A FORMER INTELLIGENCE AND PARAMILITARY PROFESSIONAL. In an adrenaline-fuelled ride along the Cornish coast, Peter Krane, a world weary MI6 agent, comes into contact with a rogue Government agent that he thought was dead, and beyond that into the secret world of weapons testing and a shocking family revelation. 1. ON THE FAR SIDE of England. Deep in the West Country. Things where winding down. Drawing to a close in a simple quiet Cornish way. The same as it always had. It was the end of yet another warm sunny day. And the night was slowly drawing-in. The sky was blood-red and seemed almost angry. But in the small harbour community nobody noticed. Things seemed the same and nothing out of the ordinary. The last of the small fishing boats had already come in and landed their catch. And the seagulls had long since flown away to their roosts. And the last of the dockside trades had closed up. But further out, just past the point, another wasn’t ready to come in yet. The calm gentle sea gently lapped against the side of the old fishing boat. Wave after wave rolled over, danced and fizzed as it chugged along. Silhouetted against the horizon and the pitch of the bruised red sky, it didn’t look out of place. It was probably one of many, that had past that day. And no-one ashore would think any different, even perhaps if it was seen. But it sailed on. It had a purpose. An intent. And the two men aboard were bringing to a close the final stages of a dark one. Banking around the boat sat broadside. The engine was cut and the small vessel was allowed to drift on the gentle current. The two occupants in the wheelhouse gazed out at the vast sea surrounding them. And surveyed the shore-line through an old pair of battered German Naval binoculars. They were alone. Totally alone. No activity in the harbour. No other vessels coming their way. Not even a seagull flying above. The sun continued to sink slowly and majestically into the sea. And now only the harbour lights and bluff-point were faintly visible in the hazy shadow of the fading light. The darkness was now starting to take hold. Becoming ‘Witching-Hour’. The door to the wheelhouse creaked open and together the two occupants slowly strolled out onto the old, weathered deck of the little trawler. They stared hard in unison at the large grey parcel that lay there. They seemed to be gauging it. It was really no bigger than a small under-croft fridge. So at least perhaps manageable. They circled it. Several times. Then their hesitation vanished and they both stooped and grabbed the ends as best they could. It was heavy. Slippery and cumbersome. The contents were uneven and even appeared to move and fight back at being man-handled. They struggled on. Then heaving it up, landed it with a thud onto the stern-cover. Just above the now silent engine. They paused studying it. Then with a shove, rolled it over and it splashed-down into the sea like a depth-charge. They both reeled, avoiding the spray, then finally leaned forward. Scanning the surf to make sure it had sunk. There was no mistake. It was gone. No sign of it. Only the tell-tale fizz and foam of where the sea had been broken in its wake. The older of the two turned and gave a slight nod. And the other sauntered back to the wheel house and started the engine and with a burble the little boat gathered pace and slowly moved away. The man on deck flexed his chest, taking in the salty breeze. Then reached in through his over-coat and pulled out a slim pencil-like cigar. He twirled it in his fingers then tore-off the wrapping and cast it out into the sea. With a flick of his silver Dunhill lighter, he breathed a spit of flame into it. And finally with a strong powerful exhale, kept a watchful eye on the last of the bubbles, just to make sure. *** The turbulence was heavy. And seemed relentless. The 747 had a smooth flight. But as it neared the UK the bad weather kicked in and the sheer hulk of the plane rocked countlessly from side to side. Coupled with dropping attitude several times like a kite dancing in a gale. Those who weren’t awake, were now. Nervously shook from their slumber by the cabin floor coming up and almost hitting them square in the face. But finally, the wheels of the 747 screamed as they touched-down at Heathrow. And seat belt clicks reverberated through the cabin like metal castanets. As everyone made a sudden and eager scramble for their bags and the exit. But one person remained still. He wasn’t in any hurry. And leaning forward from his seat, he glanced down the aisle. He could see the plane was almost empty. So realising this he finally made his move. He liked to hang at the back. As no one ever paid any attention to who was last. Everybody on board just wanted off. After almost 30 years of tirelessly serving the government. Peter Crane was ready for some leave. Indefinite! And long-overdue. Grabbing his bags at arrivals he sauntered through customs via a secret route. Being an operative for MI6 had its perks. Crane breezed on unseen down through a side corridor. And to his left through mirrored glass, he could see the holiday makers queuing-up. There were only two guys checking passports, so they would have a long wait. He’d seen this so many times. It was almost second nature. Tired mums and dads. Screaming kids. And grandparents who looked like death-warmed-up and ready to give-in and collapse were they stood. Luckily, there was no sound. Crane was thankful for some small mercies and the genius of
